Page 84 of The Beach Shack
Margo watched her son approach the Beach Shack through the front window and felt fifty years of carefully held secrets pressing against her chest. Rick moved with that familiar brisk efficiency—always purposeful, always controlled—but she could see the wariness in his shoulders, the way he paused just a moment too long before opening the door.
He was expecting another argument about money. Another lecture about responsibility and proper business practices. How could he know that today, finally, he would understand?
Her hands trembled as she smoothed her apron. The worn leather ledger sat heavy in the bottom desk drawer, patient as a prayer book, waiting to reveal the truth she’d carried alone for so long.
“Hello, Mom,” Rick said quietly as he entered.
The gentle formality in his voice made her chesttighten. When had they become so careful with each other? When had her son—her brilliant, stubborn, loving son—become a polite stranger who visited out of duty rather than joy?
“Hello, Rick.” She kept her voice steady, though her heart was racing. “Thank you for coming.”
Meg was already at their usual table, looking nervous but determined. Bless her granddaughter for orchestrating this. Margo had been carrying this secret for decades, but it had taken Meg’s fresh eyes to see what needed healing.
They settled into chairs that suddenly felt formal, like they were conducting business rather than trying to bridge years of misunderstanding. Rick pulled out his notebook—of course he had a notebook—and Margo felt a surge of tenderness. Even as a child, Rick had needed to write things down, to make sense of the world through lists and careful planning.
So much like his father in that way. Richard had kept meticulous records too, especially about the people he helped. “Write it down, Margo,” he’d always said. “Someday these stories will matter.”
“Before you say anything,” she began, needing to start with truth, “I want you to know that I understand why you’ve been angry with me. About the payments. About what you saw as financial irresponsibility.”
Rick’s jaw tightened—that familiar expression that meant he was preparing to defend his position. How many times had she seen that look over the years? How many conversations had ended with him walking away,convinced she was too sentimental, too foolish to understand business?
“Mom—”
“Let me finish.” She kept her voice gentle but firm. This time, he would hear the whole story. “You were wrong about what I was doing with the money, but you were right that I should have told you. Should have trusted you.”
The words felt strange in her mouth—an admission she’d been too proud to make for years.
She told him about the dead investor first. About discovering the obituary years later, learning that no one was left to claim the payments. About the choice she’d made to redirect that money rather than simply stop sending it.
Rick’s face cycled through expressions—surprise, confusion, the beginning of something that might have been understanding. But she could see him struggling to reconcile this new information with the narrative he’d carried for so long.
“You’ve been running a scholarship fund?” he asked quietly. “This whole time?”
“A small one,” she said, though even as the words left her mouth, she knew they weren’t quite true. Forty-seven recipients over twenty years wasn’t small. It was a legacy.
She watched Rick sit back in his chair, staring at her as if seeing a stranger. “A scholarship fund,” he repeated slowly. “All these years, I thought?—”
The pain in his voice made her want to reach acrossthe table, to comfort him the way she had when he was small and the world seemed too complicated to understand.
“You couldn’t have known,” she said gently, though part of her wondered if he could have. If she’d been braver about trust, if he’d been more curious about grace.
“I should have asked. I should have trusted that there was more to the story.”
The regret in his voice nearly broke her heart. This was what she’d feared—not his anger, but his pain at realizing how wrong he’d been. How wrong they’d both been about each other.
She stood on unsteady legs, moving toward the office where the ledger waited. Her private testament to Richard’s dream, to the promise she’d kept in the only way she knew how.
The drawer stuck slightly—it always did—but she managed to retrieve the worn leather book. Heavier than it looked, full of names and stories and second chances. She’d written in it just last week, adding Joey’s name to the list with a small note: “Marine systems training. He’s earned this.”
Rick’s hands trembled as he opened the ledger. She watched his eyes move across the first page, seeing her careful handwriting document what had become the most important work of her life.
“Maria Santos,” he read aloud, and Margo’s heart lifted. Of course he’d remember Maria—bright, determined Maria who’d worked double shifts tohelp support her family while dreaming of nursing school.
“She’s a pediatric nurse now,” Margo said softly. “Has two children of her own. Sends me a Christmas card every year with their pictures.”
Rick turned the page, his movements becoming reverent as he absorbed the scope of what she’d been doing. She watched him discover names he recognized—Tommy Davis, who’d bussed tables while saving for marine biology studies; Sarah Mitchell, who’d cleaned the grill each evening while planning for art school; David Kowalski, whose family had struggled after his father’s injury.
“Tommy Davis is Dr. Davis now,” Rick said, his voice filled with wonder. “He runs the marine research station at UC Irvine.”
